


Cubic Zirconia

by Princess_Aleera



Series: Stark Spangled Hawks [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alpha!Steve, Alpha!Tony, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Relationship, Beta!Phil, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mpreg (of a sort?), Multi, No real warnings but heed the warnings, Other, People have issues, People have pasts, Polyamory, Self-Esteem Issues, Threesome - M/M/M, and that's okay., no real spoilers past Avengers Assemble, omega!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Aleera/pseuds/Princess_Aleera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve watches the two of them with a fond smile on his face. Tony's hand trails downward, towards Clint's hip. His index finger dips into Clint's navel, Clint chuckles, and that's when Tony notices.</p><p>Clint's stomach. It's <i>curving</i>. It's barely there, barely noticeable, but there is definitely a teeny, tiny... bump.</p><p>Oh god.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been ages! This still isn't done, you guys, but it's been over a year and I've finally been able to write down 10K of this, so I figure I can start posting it. Thank you so much for waiting on me, if you have. If you haven't, I don't blame you. ;)
> 
> Warnings:  
> This story, at least its first parts, deals with mpreg as a _subject_ , and mpreg is one of the main themes,but it doesn't _necessarily_ mean that there's mpreg in the story. Pardon the vague; if you want a spoilery explanation, click on the end notes. I will point out, though, that there are no character death in this story. Take that as you will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for anatomy talk that fits an a/b/o universe, but it's not particularly explicit. Also, angst.

Thor's latest pasta experiment didn't quite turn out the way the demi-god intended, so tonight, the team eat Chinese take-away in lieu of cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. The TV's on, and Tony doesn't know who put on _The Vampire Diaries_ , but he does notice that Natasha keeps glancing at the screen every few minutes with a carefully blank expression. Tony wonders if she prefers Damon or Stefan. She seems like the Damon kind, but he's known her long enough never to presume.

Hell, she's probably the Elena kind.

Steve's multitasking; take-away box balanced on one thigh, his sketchbook on the other, drawing and eating and talking to Bruce at the same time. Must be a serum thing, Tony thinks and shifts closer to Clint, who's sitting between the two of them. The three of them aren't very handsy among the rest of the Avengers, but both Tony and Steve enjoys closeness as much as Clint does, which means a lot of cuddling. That's not even restricted to the three of them; sometimes the whole team cuddles (even Natasha, although that's rare), not just the individual couples.

It's a pretty usual night, for most of them, at least, but Clint is being awfully quiet.

“Hey, you okay?” Tony murmurs, low enough that only Steve notices.

Clint has barely touched his food; instead of shovelling it in like usual, he's staring at it with a dumbfounded expression. He doesn't quite startle when Tony nudges him, but it's a near thing. “What? Yeah, I'm fine.” His voice is low and dazed.

Tony frowns. Clint's a goddamned trained agent. He doesn't fall out of the conversation easily, and he's completely lost in his head now. “You're not eating,” Tony points out, and Clint looks down at the take-away in his hands like he didn't even realize it was there.

He blinks, and then puts it down on the table. “Not hungry.” He leans back against the couch and winds an arm around Tony. And Tony appreciates that, sure – he's a pretty tactile person, truth be told – but it's not typical of Clint to initiate contact like this in public, even among their teammates.

“What's wrong?” Tony murmurs and turns more fully towards him, because it's becoming increasingly evident that _something_ is. Clint is a little tense, a little shivery, and he feels cooler against Tony than normal.

Clint sighs and shakes his head. “Nothing, Tony. Just – feel weird, is all.”

“Weird how?”

He's quiet for a moment, before shrugging. “Nauseous. My stomach's all... churny, I dunno.” He looks a little pale, but not much more than usual. Tony presses the back of his hand to Clint's temple, as subtly as he can (even though they know that the whole team notices anyway, so it's mostly for appearance's sake). He's a little clammy, his temperature lower than usual. Like he's cold sweating.

“Fever?” Clint asks when he sees Tony's frown deepen.

“I don't know. You want to get it checked out?” Tony asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Clint shakes his head. “Nah, just think I'll retire early.”

Steve, who has been following the entire exchange without interrupting, puts down his sketchpad. “I think I'm going to bed, actually,” he says lightly and rises to his feet, brushing some invisible lint off his khaki pants. “I'll see you guys tomorrow.”

Clint rolls his eyes at the lack of subtlety, but gets up anyway. “Mind if I tag along, Cap?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Steve says and shares a look with Tony. He knows Tony's got a workshop project for Fury he needs to go back to later, and Tony nods, thankful.

The two of them leave and the rest of the team doesn't say anything about it. Tony heads back down to his workshop a few minutes later, and he doesn't resurface until early next morning. Honestly, he's trying to pull fewer all-nighters, but he was so close to designing a new interface template for the Helicarrier's security system, and by the time he's sure it'll do the trick with some tweaking and help from JARVIS, it's six am and the sun is up.

He opts out of yet another cup of coffee and heads back to his pack instead; it's early/late enough that he can get a few hours before Steve will poke him awake with his Disappointed In Your Priorities look. Steve and Clint should both be sleeping.

Instead, the bedroom is empty and the bed stripped of its covers, and Tony finds his guys in the big bathroom.

“Hey, Tony,” Steve says with a tired smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He sits on the tile floor, wearing boxer shorts and nothing else, chest flush against Clint's back and hands rubbing soothing circles on Clint's belly. Clint looks like hell warmed over.

“Jesus, you really weren't kidding, were you?” Tony says and crouches next to them.

Clint is curled miserably around the toilet, panting, gripping the seat with white knuckles and trembling fingers. Actually, scratch that – _all_ of him trembles, worse than when he's in heat. “Hi, Tony,” comes his ragged, muffled voice from the toilet bowl. He doesn't look up to greet Tony.

One of Steve's hands move up to the archer's shoulder. Tony can see that he's partially keeping Clint upright, as if his strength is failing him.

“Clint?”

Clint just mumbles something unintelligible into the bowl.

“How long's he been like this?” Tony says and puts his hand on Clint's neck. It's sweat-clammy and ice cold. “Why didn't you _tell_ me?” He's not snapping at Steve, he's not – but goddammit, Tony is Clint's Alpha too. He's supposed to be here for stuff like this; he's supposed to take care of him. Them.

“Not long,” Steve assures him, his voice intentionally calm. The hand on Clint's stomach keeps moving in small circles. “He's been pretty shaky most of the night, but he didn't lose it until a couple of hours ago at most.”

“Sorry,” Clint groans, and Tony remembers the sheet-less bed.

“Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart,” Steve says quietly. Clint still doesn't raise his head, but Tony can see and feel how he leans into both of his Alphas. People are different; there are few things Tony hates more than someone touching him when he's puking, but Clint is clearly his opposite in that.

He and Steve stay. Clint throws up again half an hour later.

~*~

“I can't find anything,” Bruce says with an apologetic shrug. “It could have been a bug.”

“It is, definitely is,” Clint says and sounds almost eager. He's still sitting on Bruce's makeshift cot on Tony's medical floor, but it's pretty clear that this place is still too much like a hospital and Clint wants out of there yesterday.

“Then how come I'm not puking my guts out right now?” Tony says. Cap, he gets, but Tony doesn't have a super-enhanced viral system and he spent an hour this morning holding Clint.

“You could still get sick,” Bruce says with a crooked smile. “Or you could have natural resistance to it.” He sighs. “I don't know, Tony. I keep telling you guys I'm not that kind of doctor – if you're worried, I'm sure Clint could visit Medical.”

“But _you_ can't find anything wrong with me?” Clint asks, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“No.”

“Well, I say we trust the good doc,” Clint chirps and hops off the cot. He strides out of there with a mock-salute and a “Thanks, Bruce!”

Steve looks less than impressed by Clint's flippant dismissal of further medical help, but eventually sighs in resignation and follows.

“You're absolutely sure?” Tony asks Bruce again, even though he trusts him.

Bruce sinks down onto his chair. “Yes, Tony. Nothing _wrong_.” He puts a strange amount of weight on that word, and Tony frowns further. His Iron senses are tingling.

“You have but-face.”

Bruce blinks.

“B-U-T face.”

He huffs a tired laugh. “It's nothing much, Tony. I just, uh, the Other Guy seems to think he smells a little differently. I don't know – I didn't catch anything.”

Tony sits down in the only other chair in the room. It swivels, but doesn't creak. He kind of wishes it would creak. “Different? How different?”

“I don't _know_ , Tony. I'm not him,” Bruce says and fiddles with a stethoscope, brows furrowed. “He just – I just got a feeling from the Other Guy, that's all. That's all I know.” And he spreads his hands in an almost defensive gesture.

Tony feels bad for the guy. It's not Bruce's fault he's not privy to all of the Big Guy's headspace. “Right. It's cool, Brucie.” He tries for a smile and it sits oddly on his face. “You're still our favorite doctor, promise.”

“Get out of my lab, Tony,” Bruce says, his voice warm.

~*~

Tony doesn't get sick. Clint seems right as rain that day, and the next, and they go with bad Chinese or a stomach bug as the culprit. At least until the third morning rolls around and Clint spends it retching into the toilet again.

“Tony, stop fretting,” Steve says, which is hypocritical bullshit because Steve fucking frets too. He's wiping Clint's forehead with a cool, wet cloth every few minutes; when Tony isn't touching him, Steve is, and he murmurs soft, reassuring phrases against the nape of Clint's neck after each round.

“I'm not fretting. I'm _working_ ,” Tony snaps. It's technically a lie, but who gives a shit. He's taking Clint's temperature, _again_ , and checking his pupils and the color of his tongue. Tony is even less of a certified doctor than Bruce is, but he doesn't care.

“Think I'm done for now,” Clint mumbles after the fourth round, and Steve brings him a glass of water to rinse out his mouth. After he's done that, and wiped off his face, Clint collapses quietly against Tony's chest. Tony might accidentally burrow his face into the crook of Clint's neck and squeeze his eyes shut, just a little, but his partners are both nice enough not to point it out. Tony hates this; Clint has never been _sick_ before, not like this. He's been out of his mind with heat, and he's been hurt from missions, sure, but not weak and pale and completely run over by some virus they don't recognize.

“I'm fine, Tony,” Clint mumbles.

“ 'Course you are,” Tony says into his neck. “You just want the attention.”

Clint chokes on his laughter and starts vomiting again.

“Sorry, baby, sorry.” Tony doesn't know what to do to make Clint better, and it makes him fucking crazy.

~*~

After the third bad morning in seven days, Tony and Steve drag Clint to Medical. Phil comes with them, though he seems less than thrilled to see the pale-white hallways again. Tony knows he hasn't been back here since he moved into the Tower two months ago. Still, when Tony asks Phil why he's here if he hates the place so much, Phil levels him with an unimpressed look.

“Clint hates it more.”

The doctors, unfortunately, give them the same answer as Bruce had given them – they don't know. Tony wonders in the privacy of his own mind whether that makes Bruce a pretty good doctor, or these guys shit ones. Since they're SHIELD, it's probably the former. It still doesn't make him any more happy that they don't know what's making Clint sick.

“It's not that bad,” Clint says later that night. He's himself again now, always is in the afternoon and after, and he grabs both Steve and Tony by the hand when they keep giving him concerned looks. “Seriously, guys. It's just some puking. I'm fine otherwise.”

“Don't know if anyone's told you this, Barton,” Tony says even though he knows they have; they did it just an hour ago, in Medical, “but people don't just throw up every few days for no reason.”

“I _know_ ,” Clint snaps, prickly all of sudden. He lets go of their hands. “I'm not fucking stupid, Tony.” He walks faster, leaving the two Alphas to trail behind him as they leave HQ.

Steve gives Tony a Look, but is decent enough not to say anything.

“It's fine, it's good,” Tony mutters, more to himself than to Steve. “I'll just-”

“Mister Stark!”

Tony almost trips over his feet, and makes up for it by spinning around fluently – like that was his intention all along. “Agent Hill! What a lovely sight you make on this-”

That's as far as he gets before he's signed up for a mission in Algeria.

~*~

Tony's shit at undercover. And even if he weren't, everybody would recognize him anyway, because _hello_. Tony fucking Stark. So when he flies to Algerie, he does so as Iron Man, and the mission itself only involves blowing up a few buildings and looking impressive. Tony doesn't technically get _all_ the details if the briefing, but he learns enough that it's a fairly run-of-the-mill mission. With Coulson as his handler, it even goes off without a hitch. He still has to stick around for days after, though, playing nice with the local authorities as Tony Stark, and he hates it. He's never liked ass-licking, as much as it's always been part of his life and job, but he likes it even less now, when he can't stop thinking about Clint back at home.

Steve's taking good care of him, Tony knows that, and Phil feeds him daily updates. It doesn't really help when Clint's nausea bouts apparently won't stop and the doctors still don't know what's wrong.

By the time Tony gets out of his private jet, back in New York, he's exhausted from freaking out in his head and not showing it to anyone. Steve meets him in the airport, welcoming him with a soft kiss, a hard hug, and a tired smile.

“Still nothing, huh,” Tony says and squeezes back.

“Nothing conclusive,” Steve says into his neck. “But he's – mostly, he's fine. It's just in the mornings.”

Something niggles at the back of Tony's brain, but he shuts it down before it can become a train of thought.

~*~

Clint greets him with a sound, dirty kiss, and he looks as well as ever. Better, even – his face has lost the pale edge it's had too many of those bad mornings, and he looks healthily flushed. He's sweaty and wearing his training gear, so Tony isn't fooled to think the flush is all because of him. Still. It's nice to pretend.

He squeezes Clint's ass and Clint laughs against him, melting a little. “Knew you'd missed me.”

“A little bit, maybe,” Tony says, and doesn't tell any of the two how he's had even more trouble sleeping than usual, thinking about home and Clint and Steve.

They end up sharing blowjobs between one another. It's not quite _tradition_ , but it does tend to happen more often than not when one (or two, or all three) of them come back from a mission halfway around the world. Clint is all eagerness and enthusiasm, and Steve takes his time, like always, and by the time they all collapse on the bed, Tony's pretty sure that their Omega is all good.

They're curled around each other now, Steve in the middle, with both Tony and Clint on their side. Tony counts the super-soldier's heartbeats and watches Clint's eyes slide shut. He's not quite sleeping, not yet, but he's dozy enough that he looks younger than he is; more innocent, less hardened by, well, everything. Tony trails a hand over Clint's face, down his neck and chest.

“Mmm,” Clint says, and it almost sounds like a question. He twitches when Tony's fingers skim past a nipple; a bigger reaction than usual, even post-fun-times.

Steve watches them with a fond smile on his face. Clint doesn't react much, so Tony keeps trailing downward, towards Clint's hip. His index finger dips into Clint's navel, and that's when Tony notices.

Clint's stomach. It's _curving_. It's barely there, barely noticeable, but there is definitely a teeny, tiny... bump.

Oh god.

“Tony?” Steve asks when he sees Tony's eyes widen, enough alarm in his voice that Clint rouses.

“Tony? What's wrong?”

“You're still on the pill, right?” Tony chokes out, face still glued to Clint's stomach.

“Yeah, of course, I'm not stu-” Clint stops, freezes. Looks down at his stomach, where Tony's hand still rests. “No. _No_. I can't – it can't – _Tony_ ,” and he scrambles backwards, away from both of them, and lands ass-first on the floor. Tony wishes he could find that funny, he really does.

“Clint!” Steve says and sits upright, the only one of them who isn't frozen in place. “What's wrong?”

Clint doesn't answer. He's got a hand curled on his stomach now, staring blankly into space, his breathing uneven.

Steve doesn't need more than that to connect the dots. “ _Morning sickness_ ,” he breathes out and winces. He actually winces.

Clint starts sucking in sharp, harsh breaths. That prompts both Alphas into action; they're down on the floor in a moment, by his side. Tony has seen Clint shake off the pain of three broken ribs on a mission, just sucked it up and gone back to shooting, but here, in their apartment (at _home_ ), they're all more relaxed. They have fewer walls up. They're easier to hurt.

“Hey, Clint, breathe for me, why don't you?” Tony says, and if his voice is trembling, so fucking be it.

“No, it's not-” Clint's voice is strangled and thin, and he pushes them away – but only to scramble onto his feet and run to the bathroom.

“Right,” Steve says faintly when the sounds of retching reach them. He stays on the floor, and when he looks up at Tony, he looks so young it makes Tony feel dirty to be sort-of-bonded to the guy. “I thought – I thought those pills were a sure thing,” Steve says.

“They _are_ ,” Tony says, because Clint's on fucking Stark contraceptive pills and they _don't fucking fail_. “JARVIS, do we have any p-pregnancy tests in the Tower?” He stumbles over the 'p' word and Steve almost sways. There's more retching from the bathroom.

“I'm,” Steve says and Tony nods. Steve goes to Clint while Tony goes to find a fucking test.

~*~

“I hate your fucking pills, Stark,” Clint says hoarsely. They're all standing by the bathroom wall, waiting, trying to keep themselves from running over to the sink to check if there's a blue or a pink line. Clint's hugging himself and Steve and Tony are awkwardly hovering nearby. Clint still trembles, and Tony doesn't think it's because of the puking anymore, since his color has returned.

“It'll be okay,” Steve says and kisses the top of Clint's head. He hasn't seemed to need more than a few minutes to calm the fuck back down, and though Tony's kind of envious, he isn't at all surprised. After waking up after being frozen in the ice for seven decades, what's an accidental kid, right?

He maybe laughs out loud. The others stare at him. “Sorry,” Tony says. “I'm not... yeah.” He moves closer to Clint, who lets out a steady breath.

“Yeah. Me neither.”

They wait in a silence that threatens to suffocate them all, until they know – without acknowledging it out loud – that it's been more than long enough. “Not it,” Clint grits out.

Steve doesn't get the reference, but he gets the meaning. “Are you s-”

“ _Not. It._ ”

Steve lets it go and looks up at Tony, and god, it would be so easy to load this off on Captain America. Steve would do it; probably see it as his fucking duty, as the head Alpha of their pack, and that's – that's not fair to him. Alpha or no, Steve is the youngest of them, and so Tony nods and takes a deep breath. Steve tries to hide his relief, but he doesn't quite succeed.

The seven steps over to the bathroom sink are some of the longest of Tony's life. Dimly it reminds him of the Afghanistan desert; the stark, white, tiled room stretches in front of him in much the same way.

He grabs the handle of the small test without looking at the display. Tony knows Clint and Steve can see his cowardly closed eyes in the mirror in front of him, but he doesn't care. He needs these seconds, needs them to get his headspace sorted out, because –

Because what if. What if Clint is pregnant. What if they're going to be fathers.

What the fuck are they going to _do_?

He doesn't know how long he stands with the pregnancy test in his hand without daring to look at it. Probably no longer than a minute, since neither of his partners call him out on it, but it feels like a goddamn eternity. In the span of whatever time he spends standing there, frozen, Tony's thoughts branch out in a thousand different directions, like the circuits of JARVIS's mainframe. One circuit just loops _oh god oh god oh god what the fuck do we do oh god_. Another few focus on the technical stuff – talking to doctors, to Bruce, to Coulson and Fury for leave, to Pepper for emotional back-up, telling the rest of the team. Getting baby stuff if Clint decides to keep it; getting informed, reading the books, going to those fucking breathing courses Tony can never remember what are called. If Clint decides _not_ to keep it, then Tony and Steve need to fix that, and try to make it as easy on him as possible – this should ultimately be his decision. One stray part of Tony's brain wonders how Steve feels about this – how he would feel about abortion, and about passing on his super-genes.

Tony wonders what the hell they'll do with the world and their place in it, how their friends and team and how the fucking _media_ will react when they find out. How they'll juggle their superhero lives and identities with their new roles; how they have to make sure the baby stays safe, since it will undoubtedly get coveted by villains all fucking over.

But mostly, Tony wonders if he would be as shitty a dad as Howard was. If Clint will be anything like _his_ own mother or father (though Tony refuses to think he would be). If they can do this at all, even with Steve, who is a grounding force in both their lives.

Tony opens his eyes and stares down at the small display. Everything is so quiet around him. Then he closes his eyes again.

“It's negative.”

~*~

They've got four more tests. Clint takes them all before they leave their apartment to find Bruce. They show him the tests, and he – once again – apologizes for his lack of experience in the department. In the end, they have to go to HQ.

“I don't _get it_ ,” Clint says finally, sounding so fucking lost. They're in a private room and he's lifting up his shirt. Doctor Fanwenn is smearing gel on his stomach, and there's a sonography monitor beside her, but she's got a pinched look on her face that tells them all she doesn't expect to find anything.

“Pseudocyesis is uncommon, Agent Barton, but it is far from unheard of,” Dr. Fanwenn says and places the transducer on Clint's stomach, moving in careful circles. “Percent-wise, it _is_ more common with male Omegas.”

Tony doesn't know what to look for on the monitor; he knows what fetuses look like, from TV – like little peanuts – but if there is a baby in there somewhere (if, _if_ ), it probably isn't grown enough yet. Or maybe it is. Tony's completely in over his head.

“Okay, here is your uterus,” the doctor says and points at a gray blob on the monitor. Tony will take her word for it. “If there were a foetus, we should be able to at least see the gestational sac – it's the earliest determination of an embryo.” She moves the transducer and turns back to the screen. “The gestation sac would be a dark shape right about here,” she says and points, “surrounded by a white rim.”

They're all very quiet. Steve doesn't even move next to Tony – he isn't sure Steve's breathing. Actually, Tony's not sure _he's_ breathing.

“There's... nothing,” Clint says. His fingers still clutch at his t-shirt where it's bunched around his pecs, knuckles white.

“Exactly.” Dr. Fanwenn sighs and offers them a sad smile. “I'm sorry, Agent Barton, but this looks like a false pregnancy.”

“I'm – I'm _imagining_ that I'm knocked up?” Clint sputters. “The _fuck_?!” He shoves his t-shirt down, ignoring the gel still covering his abdomen and how it immediately soaks the inside of his soft cotton t-shirt. “No, I wouldn't – why the hell would I do that? That's fucked up!”

“Agent Barton, pseudocyesis is not-” she starts, but Clint is off the table and out the door long before she even has time to trail off.

Tony can feel how tense Steve is; can smell the scent of Alpha strengthen as Steve's instincts are going haywire, caught between _get information_ and _make sure my Omega is safe_. And Tony, Tony really fucking doesn't want to hear the medical lingo and the sweet doctor explaining to them why they're not becoming parents, so: “I'm going.” There's a bite of Alpha in his voice; enough that Steve startles. Tony's never used his voice or smell at Steve before – why would he? – but Tony's need to be elsewhere is like cling-film covering his skin at this point, and he can't find it in him to feel sorry for his fellow Alpha.

Steve nods, and Tony's off to find Clint.

~*~

Clint is hiding, which automatically means that Tony won't find him, no matter how hard he tries. Not even JARVIS can find Clint when he decides to get gone, and Tony knows that. So instead, he goes to the one person who can – Phil. Tony's not even sure if Phil is in his office, but he's got a hunch and it turns out to be right.

“Mister Stark, come in,” Phil says and smiles blandly at him. In the Tower, Tony is Tony, but on SHIELD premises he's still 'Stark'. Tony's not surprised – Phil and Clint have known each other for a decade and they're still on Agent terms in the field. “What can I help you with?”

Now that he's here and facing that question, Tony realizes that he has no idea. ' _Hey, so Clint is pregnant except not_ '? Yeah, no. On the other hand, Phil is the Avengers' handler. He's also one of Clint's closest friends, and a little less scary to talk to than Natasha.

In the end, what comes out of his mouth is: “You know what pseusedeuce-something is?”

Phil frowns and puts down his pen. For anyone else, it would be like dropping a mug of coffee to the floor – probably in slow motion, like in the movies. “Pseudocyesis?”

“Yeah. That.” Tony stuffs his hands in his pockets, but he manages not to slouch.

“I do.” Phil looks at him for a moment more, before his face does something weird; his eyes widen by a fraction, but his expression still shutters. “Barton?”

Tony can only nod.

“Where is he now?”

“Don't know. He...” _ran_ , Tony doesn't say, because it makes Clint sound like a coward and he's not. He's anything but. _Tony_ feels like a coward, hiding in Coulson's office instead of finding his Omega, or talking to his Alpha partner.

Fuck, this has been a really long day. And it's only ten in the morning.

Phil stares down at the neat mess of folders and reports on his desk for a moment. “Captain Rogers?”

“Still with the doc.”

Phil doesn't ask him why Tony's here instead of with Steve, and Tony appreciates it. Instead, Phil sighs, a strangely human sound coming from him – even after they learned the hard way how very human Phil really is. He rises to his feet and brushes a hand down his chest. It could look like he's straightening his tie. Tony knows he's not.

“Stark, I suggest you return to Captain Rogers for the time being,” Phil says and follows him to the door, locking the office behind him.

“You know where Clint is?” Tony asks.

“I do.” It's not dismissive, but it's not inviting either, and Tony knows even before he asks. 

“You're not gonna show me, are you.”

Phil shakes his head, with a sad quirk of his lips. “No. Barton has few secrets and I don't plan on sharing any of them without his permission.”

“Fair enough.” Tony turns, but can't bring himself to leave. “Just – he's in bad shape, I think,” he says and doesn't manage to make it sound anything other than resigned.

“I don't see why he wouldn't be,” Phil says, gentler than usual. “Why all of you wouldn't be, for that matter. I will see you later, Stark.” He doesn't touch Tony as he walks away, but it feels like Tony's just gotten a reassuring pat on the back anyway.

He still isn't 100% sure Coulson's not a superhero.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

Phil uses one of the vents near his office and lets the oh-so-familiar scent guide him. Phil is fairly certain that he knows where he will find Clint, but even if he weren't, he can smell the complicated mix of fear, frustration, relief and grief from far away – even with his modest Beta nose. Phil makes his way through darkened shafts, his inner compass informing him that they are near Director Fury's office. Clint's scent is stronger here, and more sour.

“Clint.” Phil is not trying to startle him, now less so than ever. Even Phil can't say with certainty how Clint will react to his presence here. Phil is fully prepared to receive a kick to the face for his troubles – not that he would take that personally.

But when he rounds a corner and finds Clint curled up in front of him, Clint doesn't move. This is one of his many nests around HQ, and the space is littered with old t-shirts and sweaters that belong to Natasha, Tony, Steve – even Phil. Clint has buried himself in them and closed his eyes, and they don't open when Phil reaches him.

“Clint.” There's no need to tell Clint what Phil knows; Clint would already be aware. “Tell me what you need,” Phil says quietly, but in his Agent Coulson voice. _Talk to me, Barton._ It wouldn't be the first time that voice could cut through Clint's booby-trapped mind.

“ 's nothing,” Clint says without opening his eyes. His voice sounds like chewed gravel, and he lets out a small, lost laugh. “Literally.” Even now, Clint is curled up as if protecting his stomach. 

Phil sighs softly and sits down, tries to make himself comfortable in the limited space. 

“You gonna drag me outta here?” Clint asks. 

“Not unless you want me to.” 

“ 'm supposed to be with – with – aren't I?” It sounds like a question, though Phil is certain Clint didn't intend it that way. 

“You're supposed to do exactly what you need to, Clint. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Clint's face scrunches up, as if he's trying to block out the dull, limited light in here. It's quiet around them. “Phil,” he says and doesn't continue. 

Phil lies down behind Clint's back, on top of a few pieces of soft clothing. His chest aches and he ignores it. Clint is broader than Phil, though they are roughly the same height, but even before the Battle of New York, this was their usual resting position during Clint's heats. Clint is not used to feeling safe, not even now, when he has two good Alphas looking after him. Phil wraps himself around Clint's form and waits for him to relax into it, though he doesn't. Not this time. Not yet. 

“So apparently I'm pretending to be preggers,” Clint says. His tone suggests he's trying to be humorous, but his words are choked. 

“Pseudocyesis is something very different than pretending you are pregnant, Clint.” Phil has known three other SHIELD agents who have been diagnosed with the same condition while he has been employed here; one female Beta and two male Omegas. Neither of them 'pretended' anything. “It's your body believing it is pregnant when it isn't, and it can have several causes – everything from hormonal to psychological. Sometimes, doctors don't know why it happens at all.” Phil presses his forehead against Clint's neck and holds him close. “Whatever is going through your mind, Clint, this was not your fault.” 

“Tell that to Steve and Tony,” Clint grits out. 

“Meaning?” 

But Clint doesn't respond to that. He smells like shame and loss, even with Phil here, and only scoots imperceptibly closer to his handler. 

“You gotta go,” Clint says after a while. 

“I do?” 

“You got work. Can't... can't spend the whole day in the fucking shafts with a broken Omega, sir.” 

A flare of anger goes through Phil at that, and he makes certain Clint can smell it. “As I am still on official leave, I can spend the day however I goddamn please. And you are _not_ broken, Clint. You never have been.” 

Clint is quiet, but he shudders once. Phil fits his hand over his heart and wills it to calm; wills its owner to calm down with it. 

“You're not broken,” Phil whispers into Clint's neck. 

Clint eventually changes his breathing pattern to match Phil's and, slowly, his body loses some of its tension. Phil can't see his watch from here, but he's certain he has been here for almost forty minutes when Clint speaks again. “They mad?” 

Phil smiles. “No. Just worried about you.” 

Clint nods at that, once. “You didn't tell them where I was at.” 

“No.” 

Another small nod. “Thanks, Phil,” Clint says quietly. 

“Nothing to thank me for,” Phil murmurs, and holds him close and tight. 

__

~*~

There isn't much to do, Doctor Fanwenn tells Tony and Steve. Sometimes the false pregnancy just goes on, and sometimes the 'symptoms' stop when the person realizes they're not actually pregnant. There's no way to tell in beforehand, all they can do is wait. Wait for Clint to reappear from his hiding place, or wait for Phil to bring news. Wait for Clint's stomach to keep swelling, or for the swelling to go down.

Tony hates waiting. And he hates – he _hates_ – this lingering feeling of sadness. Like he's lost something.

Steve and Tony are still at HQ, in one of the gyms now. On opposite sides of the room. Alone. Tony's still working on the Helicarrier interface on his tablet, but his thoughts are scattered and work's going slow. Steve has quit beating the punching bags into pulps and sat down in the corner, sketching absently in his little pad.

As he watches Steve, the other Alpha stares down at his sketchbook with unmasked surprise, before his expression blanks out and he starts ripping the drawing he's been working on into pieces.

“Steve?” Tony asks.

Steve's head whips up, like he's been caught red-handed, and his eyes flickers to the crumpled piece of paper in his fist. “It's – it's nothing,” he says, halting.

Tony walks over. “Can I see?”

Steve's forehead pinches, but he gives Tony the paper ball without argument. Tony uncurls it.

It used to be a drawing of a young woman, it looks like. She's pretty, but thin – almost gaunt – and her smile is warm. Her features are slightly hazy, like the drawing is based on a near-forgotten memory. She looks vaguely familiar.

Tony looks at Steve, leaves the question unasked. “It's my ma,” Steve says quietly. “I don't – really remember her that well anymore. She died when I was fifteen. She was – I got most of my illnesses from her, the asthma and the...” he sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “After she died, it was mostly just me and Bucky. But she was... the best ma anyone could want. Dad died at sea while I was still a baby, so I've never...” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I can't help but wonder what kind of dad I would be,” he finishes, and almost whispers it.

Steve's quiet question taps into something similar inside Tony, but he's not – he can't talk about it out loud. Not yet. Instead, he sits down on the dirty floor next to Steve and tangles their fingers.

~*~

They have been here for almost two hours, Phil's inner clock tells him, when Clint tenses up again.

“What's wrong?” Phil asks, quiet in the small, peaceful space they have carved out for Clint.

“Not feelin' great,” Clint mumbles and pulls away. He begins to crawl towards the nearest exit, and his movements have an air of desperation to them. Phil follows, but at a distance, careful not to crowd him.

Clint is barely out of the shafts when he begins to run, and Phil still isn't strong enough to match his speed. Instead, he follows the scent – spiked with an aroma of sickness and resignation, now.

He finds Clint in the nearest bathroom, breathing harshly into the toilet bowl. He is curled up on the floor, forehead resting against the porcelain as ripples of nausea go through him.

“Clint, what do you need?” Phil says and crouches next to him.

Clint lets out a quiet groan and his body twitches. His eyes are hooded with something like shame, and though he opens his mouth, he can't speak between the harsh pants.

“Do you want me to find Steve and Tony?” Phil tries. And after a moment of stillness, Clint nods hesitantly. Then he throws up.

~*~

“Sir, Agent Coulson is calling,” JARVIS says from his pocket, and Tony springs to his feet to pull out his phone. “Shall I put him through?”

“Of course, c'mon, J, time's a-wasting,” Tony fires off, and Steve takes his hand. He might be a little antsy, maybe. A bit.

A subtle click, and then Phil's voice comes over the StarkPhone speakers. “Stark? Is Rogers with you?”

“Right here, Coulson,” Steve says.

“We're in the gym,” Tony adds.

“Barton is sick again,” Phil says and sounds pained. “He asked for you.”

Tony swears, but notes Phil's directions and they're off before the call finishes. The two of them rush to the right floor and find Phil outside the men's room, standing as straight as ever with a slightly rumpled suit. He doesn't say anything, just nods them inside.

“Hey, boy,” Tony says as soon as they enter the right cubicle, and Steve sits down behind Clint's back immediately. He puts a warm, big hand on the back of Clint's neck, and Tony sees how Clint's eyes slide shut for a moment.

“Sor-” Clint's body seizes up and he retches, before he tries again. “Sorry I – ran.”

“Not a problem, let's just get this thing over and done with, yeah?” Tony says, and Steve nods. Tony crouches next to him.

“It's fine, Clint,” Steve says. “Just concentrate on taking deep breaths. We're here, all three of us.”

“Phil?” Clint asks without lifting his head, still panting. He sounds so small, and so lost, even with Steve and Tony with him.

“I'm right here, Clint,” Phil says calmly from the doorway. His voice holds that particular brand of fondness that Tony only hears him use with Clint, and Clint sighs a little when he hears it.

“See?” Tony says. “Only needs Natasha, and your whole family would be cozying up to you in the men's room.”

“Heh,” Clint says, and finds one of Tony's hands to squeeze.

Clint keeps throwing up, sometimes eliciting small, pained whimpers, and Tony eventually slides a hand around to rub his upset stomach. It's still slightly swollen; Tony tries to ignore the bump that hides nothing underneath it. If Clint lets out a sound strangely like a sob, none of them point it out.

~*~

Another hour comes and goes before Clint seems to be sure that he's finished for now. He's pasty and smells like sick, and they help him over to the sink so he can rinse his mouth and wash his face. Phil gets a toothbrush and some toothpaste from his office and donates it to the good cause. Clint's fingers tremble when they grab hold of the sink edge, his face almost as white as the porcelain, and gulps down water too fast. There's a sheen of cold sweat on his neck, and Tony wets a small wad of paper towels. He presses it against Clint's flushed neck, who bows his head into it and turns off the taps.

“You up for the ride home?” Tony asks.

“Yeah,” Clint says, through a groan, but he straightens and gives the others a grimace that's almost passable for a smile. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

Tony thinks the three of them give Clint the same unimpressed look, because Clint sighs and rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.” He looks calmer and less green, at least, and that makes Tony feel a little better. “I wanna go home.”

“You sure? The doctor-”

“I don't _want_ to see another doctor,” Clint snaps, his head jerking as if he wants to spin around and yell at them. “I just – want to get some sleep. It's not been a great day.” He rubs at his wet face, wipes it dry with the sleeve of his shirt.

Tony can't help but glance at Phil for – advice, he supposes. Steve does the same.

“I think that sounds like a good idea,” Phil says.

Clint nods sharply and strides out of the bathroom. “So let's go.”

~*~

They don't see much of Clint after that. Sure, they still live together, work together, sleep together (even if it is strictly _sleeping_ for now), but Clint is... not around. Not in his head, at least. He keeps his own in fights and on assignments, and he engages in conversation, but there's an... emptiness to him that is scary.

“It's to be expected,” Phil says and folds his hands on top of some important-looking folders. He looks tired these days, but continually better – Tony no longer gets irrational urges to feed Agent something whenever he sees the guy. “With what Clint – actually, what you're all going through right now, it's understandable that you're pulling away from each other.”

“I don't want to,” Tony says. Snaps, really, but who cares. “I don't want any of them to. And it's not like we _lost_ anything or anything, there was never anything to _lose_.”

Phil gives him a sad smile instead of his usual bland one. “Have you fooled anyone with that pitch yet, Tony?”

Tony kicks at the shiny mahogany desk Phil sits behind. “Sure, I fool everyone all the time. I'm a bedazzler by nature.”

“Clint is getting help,” Phil says and leans back. “The details are classified, obviously, but he's not on his own. If either you or Steve need to talk to someone, there's help for you too.” He arches an eyebrow. “I'd be more adamant, but somehow I get the feeling that the words 'Stark men are made of iron' are already looping through your brain – I don't want your system to overload and crash.”

“Ha ha.” Tony gets up, walks to the door, stops. “Has he... been with you, since that day?” It's only been a week, but it's been a long week. And Clint keeps to his own side of the bed these mornings and nights; he eats breakfast in silence; he gently disentangles himself from any hugs or attempts of cuddling. Whereas Tony used to mock him – and Steve – for his affectionate nature, now he just misses it.

Phil's gaze flickers, just once. “No,” he says plainly. “No, he hasn't been around.”

~*~

Tony watches his partners over his Stark Tablet. He's got a breakfast smoothie, but hasn't touched it. Steve is slowly eating his way through four boiled eggs, six slices of toast, and a small heap of bacon; Clint is staring down at his bowl of cereal with eyes that are far, far away. Tony desperately wants to fill the silence with inane chatter, but for once (if this entire week can be called 'once'), he can't come up with something to say.

“I'm thinking of heading down to Central Park later,” Steve says and looks around at both of them. “It'd be nice to have some company, if any of you are interested.” He has that look he gets when he tries to look neutral, but wants to be hopeful.

“Sounds like a plan,” Tony says, because he can't resist that face. Besides, maybe getting out of here and doing something romantic will lift that heavy blanket of stiff and awkward that they can't seem to shake off.

“I think I'm moving into Phil's for a while,” Clint says.

The silence is so deafening, Tony can almost hear the crickets chirp.

“What?” Steve asks eventually, when Clint just continues to eat his cereal, gaze firmly planted on the bowl in front of him.

“I'm staying at Phil's apartment,” Clint clarifies, in that same, lifeless but determined tone. “For a couple of weeks. Maybe longer.”

“Why?” Tony croaks. His tablet lies on the table, forgotten.

Clint doesn't reply, just finishes his cereal.

“I mean,” Tony fumbles, and looks at Steve for help.

“Of course,” Steve says in his Careful Voice, the one he uses when he talks to shell-shocked people. “If that's what you need.”

“It's what I _want_ ,” Clint clarifies coldly. He goes over to the kitchen and rinses his plate, before he puts it in the dishwasher. “I'll come back later to get some spare clothes. See you guys at HQ.” Then he grabs his jacket and walks out of the apartment without looking back. Tony can't pinpoint his scent at all, like he's holding it in as much as he can.

He and Steve sit in absolute silence for a good few minutes, staring at the door and the table alternatively. It feels like someone just tilted the world upside down, and as much as Tony would love to blame this one on Loki or Von Doom or someone evil, he's painfully aware that this is his own fault.

Somehow.

Steve sighs and gets up from his chair, but instead of leaving the room, like Tony expects him to, he drags Tony up from his chair. “Come here,” Steve says quietly and draws him into a hug.

Tony makes an indeterminate noise of surprise and goes willingly; lets himself be enveloped by his boyfriend.

(Maybe his only boyfriend now.)

“He'll be back,” Steve says and presses his lips to the side of Tony's face. “Don't freak out. He just needs... a different perspective, is all.”

“I'm not freaking out,” Tony mutters. “Who's freaking out? Not me. Here I am, not freaking out.” He doesn't mention that Steve must be able to feel how hard his heart is pounding. Steve, bless his own super-soldier heart, doesn't call him on it.

“Your smell is all over the place,” Steve says, and maybe he meant it as a funny remark, but it comes out as tentative, almost sad. He strokes Tony's back, his fingers trailing down the knobs of his spine. “He's not going to break the bond, you know. He just wants some space.”

“Sure,” Tony says, and doesn't even try to sound convinced.

~*~

Phil wakes up staring into a familiar pair of haunting, green eyes. “Barton,” he says evenly, to disguise his surprise.

“Sorry,” Clint says, but doesn't move from where he lies, on top of the covers on the other side of Phil's bed.

“I don't mind,” Phil says and sits up. He rubs the sleepiness out of his eyes. “I don't recall you coming in, though.”

“Snuck in a couple hours ago, JARVIS let me in. Didn't wanna wake you.” Clint scoots closer and puts his hand on Phil's chest, not where the spear went through, but close.

“I don't mind,” Phil says again and puts his hand on top of Clint's. He strokes his thumb alongside one of Clint's fingers, whispery-soft.

Clint smiles briefly, before he sighs. “Can I stay here, Phil?”

“You mean for the day? Of course you can.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean... like, for a while. A long one.”

Phil frowns. “Indefinitely?”

“Something like that.”

Phil makes Clint sit up so they can face each other fully. “Clint, what happened?”

“Nothing, Phil, nothing like that,” Clint says in a slightly childish, petulant tone. It's a tone that begs Phil to leave it alone, and for the most part, Phil respects his wishes. But this is too important to leave alone.

“Clint.”

“Phil, please don't.” Clint looks away. “I just can't- _be_ there right now, around them. I can, I can fucking _smell_ the disappointment on them, Phil, and I'm not using a fucking metaphor right now. I just, I can't.” He rubs at his eyes. “Please don't make me.”

“I won't,” Phil promises. “You can stay here for as long as you wish. But you know that isn't going to magically solve your problems, Clint.”

“I know I can't ostrich my way outta this one,” Clint mutters and scoots down on the bed so he can put his head on Phil's stomach. The silky-smooth sheets bunch up near Clint's hip and he wriggles to get more comfortable.

“No, you can't,” Phil agrees, and scratches lightly at Clint's scalp. The effect is instantaneous; tension bleeds out of Clint like blood from a wound, and he sighs deeply against Phil's sleep shirt. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Phil says.

“Other than the broken record of Clint Fucks Up Everything He Loves, the jazz edition?” Clint closes his eyes. “I'm thinking about Jennifer.”

Phil frowns. “Who, Jasper's kid?”

“Yeah. He took her to HQ the other day, I got to keep her distracted for an hour while Jasper went to a meeting.”

“In which you mean you taught her horribly inappropriate things for a seven-year old,” Phil says with a smile that Clint mirrors.

“Just a little. Showed her how to use my bow, how to make sure she doesn't get stuck in the vents.”

“And why, exactly, would she find herself in the vents in the first place?” Phil tries to sound stern, but he knows that he is failing. In truth, it doesn't bother him much.

“No reason,” Clint sing-songs, “just in case, y'know. Someone showed her how to climb up to it and unscrew the seal.”

Phil resumes his hair-scratching. “You realise that Jasper will murder you?”

Clint laughs, and it sends spikes of happiness through Phil's sternum. It has been too long since he has heard Clint laugh.

“He won't,” Clint says when his chuckles die down. “He'll try, but he won't succeed.”

Phil makes a non-committal hum. Clint's heavy-lidded eyes seem even greener than usual against the dark blue of Phil's sheets. He also looks paler than usual, though Phil suspects that might be reality more than the choice of background colors. Clint's smile dims while he watches Phil.

“You've got frowny-face,” Clint murmurs and brushes his thumb over a few of Phil's crow's feet.

“I'm just concerned,” Phil says.

“Bout what?”

“You. And your Alphas.”

Clint looks surprised; his hand falls. “Tony and Steve? They're fine. They've got each other.”

“Not you?” Phil asks. He knows that is on the nose; cruel, perhaps, but he never shies away from uncomfortable truths.

Clint flinches. “Of course they've got... Goddammit, Phil, why you gotta be like that?” He rolls off the bed in one fluid motion, and crosses his arms once he is at a safe distance.

“I'm just pointing out that you are part of a whole, now,” Phil says as calmly as he can. “When you flee from your relationship, it's not just you who suffers.”

“Is this another one of your bullshit 'your actions have consequences' speeches, sir?” Clint sneers. “Because I've kinda heard 'em all.”

“Clearly they didn't work,” Phil says and gets out of the bed, his chest twinging. He makes sure not to rub at the scar. “On account of your hiding.”

“My- fuck you, Phil!” Clint shouts. “I didn't come here to get more shit from you!”

“Clint-”

“No, you know what, go fuck yourself, Phil.” Clint stalks out of the room. “I'm staying with Nat.”

He slams the door, like an angry child.

~*~

“Would you like some coffee?” Bruce asks, instead of asking why Tony looks so fucking terrible.

“You're my favorite, Banner,” Tony says and musters up a smile. He continues to pick apart his Starkphone and lay all the individual pieces in order on his work desk.

“Steve?” Bruce asks, and Steve looks up from his sketchbook to nod.

“Sure. Thanks, Bruce.”

“No problem,” Bruce says quietly and goes upstairs.

They keep on working with their own thing for another minute, until the quite patter of footsteps come from the staircase again. It's not Bruce this time.

“Phil,” Steve says and stands. “Is something wrong?”

“It depends on your definition,” Phil says with a disarming smile. “Sit down, Captain, there's no call for action.”

“I, we thought Clint was with you,” Steve says, but sits back down. Tony keeps tinkering with his stuff and makes sure to look super busy, so that nobody will talk to him but he can still listen in on the conversation. Not that he's actually eavesdropping; he chooses to assume that since Agent came into _his_ workshop, he's okay with Tony hearing what he's got to say.

“He was,” Phil says and sits down next to Steve, with a good few inches between them. “Until I offered him my opinion on his impromptu moving decision.” His smile is slightly bitter now, especially since it's Phil who wears it. “He didn't appreciate it.”

“So where's he now?” Tony says, forgetting that he's not being a part of the conversation.

Phil glances at him. “Natasha's apartment. He will probably stay there until she evicts him.”

“And when do you think that'll be?”

Phil smiles. “Sometime before tomorrow.”

Tony chuckles and goes back to his so-called work. Steve, though, doesn't seem to be that easily calmed. “And then? Do you suppose he'll stay at HQ? Find a hotel somewhere?”

“You have something on your mind,” Phil says in that voice that makes him sound like a counsellor. Tony wouldn't be surprised if he had some sort of diploma on that. “Would you like to tell me, Steve?”

“Don't think I don't know what you're doing, sir,” Steve says, but mildly. “You're shrinking me.”

“Well, then I hope it's working,” Phil says, in a just as mild manner. 

Steve drags a hand through his hair. It gets floppy like that, but not in a ruffled hair style – more like that artfully tousled 'do that super models have. Tony finds himself wondering if the super serum helped with that too.

“I'm just wondering if...” Steve trails off and rubs his knuckles absently. “If he'll just keep moving further away.”

Tony's not freaking out. He's looking for a way to minimize the Starkphone battery without the battery life being compromized. He's working, and he's breathing evenly, and he's not freaking out.

“Steve,” Phil says. “I know I wasn't around for the first six months after New York, and I haven't talked to Clint about it. But I think I can guess what he was like.” He stops and lifts his eyebrow at Steve.

“He disappeared,” Steve says slowly. “I mean, not completely, and not for long periods of time, but... he kept to himself for the most part.”

Phil makes a thoughtful noise. “That's part of Clint's M.O. He runs off somewhere, but he always comes back.”

“Like a boomerang,” Tony says, which, goddammit, Tony, just shut the hell up.

“Give him some time,” Phil says to them both. “Like I failed to do. He'll explain what's going on in his head eventually.”

Steve smiles and bumps shoulders with Phil. “Thanks, sir.”

“I need some air,” Tony mutters and escapes upstairs. He almost runs into Bruce and his coffee cups.

~*~

He ends up near Central Park without even meaning to, and sits down on a wonky bench near a hot dog vendor. He glances at the signs, but isn't hungry, so he doesn't buy anything. The vendor keeps glancing at him with a small furrow between his brow; that tell-tale look someone always get when they're unsure if he's _the_ Tony Stark or just some asshole with a goatee and red sunglasses. Tony supposes his lack of a snazzy suit is what makes the vendor most unsure; he hadn't bothered to change before he got out, just grabbed a random jacket on the way, so now he's sitting here in dirty jeans, an oil-flecked tank top, and one of Steve's jackets. It's too big for him, but in a burrowing kind of way, and Tony and Clint tend to wear it more than Steve does.

Tony ducks his head and resolutely does not smell the inside of the jacket. Steve and Clint's scents cling to it, subtle, but more than enough for Tony to pick up on. He sighs and looks around.

Traffic and people flow by and pay him no mind. It's easy to get lost in New York, if you're trying, and at this nondescript corner on a nondescript bench, Tony feels freer and more invisible than he's been in a while. He lets his thoughts whir on without him, looks around without really seeing anything, and waits for the chill to seep through Steve's jacket.

He's not waiting – at least, he doesn't think he is. He wallows in that peculiar feeling of hoping nobody finds him here, and simultaneously hoping they do, because that would mean that they at least came looking.

Nobody finds him. JARVIS keeps silent, so presumably all is well and nobody misses him. That's fine.

He's cold now. He doesn't mind. Eventually, though, he gets up and walks to a nearby Starbucks, and heads in there. He orders a triple shot of espresso, tries to smile at the beta behind the counter, and tucks himself up in a corner once he's gotten his drink. Then he waits for the reverse; for Steve's jacket to warm up from the outside in, until it feels like he's melted.

He wonders if Steve still gets nightmares about being trapped in the ice; if they're as vivid and cold as he said they were, the first few months after he was found. Tony wonders if Clint's nightmares are cold too, as cold as the blue his eyes were when he was in thrall, or if it felt different. Or if it felt anything at all.

He worries at the lip of his paper cup and drinks his coffee slowly. It's been ages since he last had such an unproductive day, but he finds that, eventually, watching the customers mill in and out of the store without having to commit anything to memory, he begins to feel something like peace.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a few more sads? And warning for brief mention of past, period-typical homophobia - or sexism? It depends on your definition.
> 
> Also, I would like to thank you guys for my feedback so far - I am flying in the dark here. :3

“Hey,” Steve says and visibly brightens when Tony gets in. It's not late, it's barely past eight, but Steve's already in bed, leaning against the headboard with the sheets pooled around him. He's wearing his comfy sweatpants, the ones that have a bunch of little holes in them and the material has stretched out. He seems to be reading a book about Japanese cuisine.

“Hey,” Tony says. He pulls off his jacket – Steve's jacket – and hands it to him. “I kind of inadvertently stole it earlier.”

Steve takes it and bunches it up, folding it on his lap like a miniature blanket. “It's okay,” he says mildly, “it's practically yours and Clint's at this point. Did you have a good time out?”

Tony watches him warily. It feels like a trap, that question, even though it's asked in a non-threatening manner. (Also, it's Steve, who never lays traps like that.) “Sure,” he says haltingly.

Steve nods, but his smile is dim. “Good.”

Tony takes off his clothes and puts them in the hamper in the corner. It's half-full already, mostly with Steve's clothes, but Tony sees a few of Clint's t-shirts in there. Tony refuses to have bitter-sweet feelings about his Omega's dirty clothes, he's just not.

He's not.

“Are you okay there, Tony?”

He flinches. “Huh? Yeah, I'm great.”

“You're staring at our dirty clothes,” Steve points out.

“Uh-huh, sure.”

Steve sighs and gets out of bed. “I wish you wouldn't do this, Tony.”

Tony wrenches out of his own tank top and tosses it on the top of the rest; he feels relieved when it covers Clint's clothes. “Do what? I'm not doing anything.” When Steve puts a hand on his shoulder, Tony shrugs it off without fully realizing it. “Don't.”

Steve immediately steps back, although he's clearly not trying to mask his hurt. “What's wrong?”

“Just- I don't know, just don't.” He felt fine outside, before – eventually, at least – but as soon as he's back in here, he feels _constricted_ , like wearing a suit that's not modified to fit him at all. It's smothering, that's it; it's hard to breathe in here, with the bitter scent of Clint still lingering, with Steve's presence and smell overshadowing anything else. “Stop- that.”

“Stop what?” Steve says, and he sounds younger by the minute. He takes another few steps back and raises his hands. “Tell me what I'm doing wrong, Tony, because I really don't know.”

“Stop _smelling_ like that!” Tony shouts, and he doesn't even know that that's what was bothering him until he's yelling it at Steve. “Stop smelling like me, like Clint, stop – stop _doing_ it! Stop pretending to be-” he chokes on his own spit and trails off into a hacking cough, eyes blurring.

“To be yours?” Steve asks, calm and sounding so small. “Even though I am?”

“Stop it,” Tony grits out and shoves the heel of his palms against his eyes, because if he looks up right now, he knows he will see Steve's brave face, the one he wears when something's killing him on the inside but he thinks he owes it to the world to not let it show.

“Do you want me gone?” Steve asks, still so quiet. And after a pause: “Do you want to break the bond?”

And Tony doesn't _know_ , because he doesn't want to break it, at least not before now, but this _hurts_ , everything is sharp edges and he can't bear the thought of being touched right now, of being in the same room as Steve, of smelling _them_ in the air and yet feel so fucking alone with himself, with the thing he lost that he didn't lose and fuck, _fuck_.

“I don't know,” he says, mostly into his hands.

There's a rustle of fabric when Steve moves. “Okay,” he says, plain and calm, even if his voice trembles a little. “I will sleep on the couch tonight, so you have some... time to think.” The whisper of footsteps, and Tony's alone with himself.

He grabs the hamper and throws it into the adjoining bathroom without looking; it clatters and something falls over with a crash. He doesn't check what it is, just shuts the door and slumps down on the bed.

He should sleep. He should try to contact Clint. He should go out into the living room and apologize to Steve. He should _fix_ this. He should be better than he is, than he feels, right now. He should, he should.

Tony stares at the wall while his brain pulls him in opposite directions. His head hurts. “JARVIS,” he says and his voice is scratchy, like he's drunk a whole bottle of Scotch. God, he needs a drink.

“Sir?” his AI says.

“What do I do?”

JARVIS is quiet for a long time. Then: “I detect that Agent Coulson is currently awake, sir, in his apartment.”

Tony has half a mind to ask why JARVIS mentioned that – it's kind of random – but it feels like too much of a cheat. They might not be besties, but Tony considers Phil one of his closest friends, by now, and he trusts Phil more than he thought he could ever trust someone who worked for an organisation as shady as SHIELD. And Phil has warmed up to him considerably lately, something Tony's sure has a lot to do with Clint.

“What about Bruce?” he asks out loud.

“Dr. Banner seems to be asleep, sir,” JARVIS says and sounds apologetic.

Yeah. He's not about to ruin Bruce's sleep – the guy seems to get preciously little of it as is. “Right,” Tony says, and winces at how weary he sounds. Then he puts on a fresh t-shirt and a pair of sleeping pants.

~*~

Tony knows that Steve isn't asleep when Tony sneaks past him, but he's polite enough to feign sleep. He appreciates that. He pads barefoot across his floor and to the elevator, which is – understandably – empty. Everything is quiet and familiar about him, and as soon as the smells change, Tony relaxes a little.

Phil takes a moment to answer the door when Tony knocks, and when he does open, he looks confused. He's wearing a pajamas, and his hair stands up a little, but his eyes are alert and narrowed. “Tony? Is everything all right?”

“Not really,” Tony says and tries to sound casual about it. “I just, there was a thing, and then Steve, and then shit went down and I just, can I stay here tonight?”

Phil blinks.

“I mean, that sounds weird,” Tony babbles, “and it probably is, too, I mean, I don't even know if I'm somehow cheating on Clint by being here but I just, I can't _sleep_ in that apartment and I want to, I actually wanna sleep instead of just going back to my workshop and you're, we have a _thing_ , you know, a kinship of sorts and I thought-”

“Tony,” Phil cuts him off, and Tony makes himself stop spouting words. “Of course you can stay here tonight.” He opens his door wider, and Tony just stares at it dumbly for a moment before he catches himself.

“Right! Thanks. Cool, great. Thanks.”

They walk past Phil's living room and kitchen, to his bedroom. “If you'd like to talk about it,” Phil offers.

“God, no. I mean, I should, I definitely should at some point, I just, my head's all over the place,” Tony says and waves his hand around. “So later, maybe, but I can't- please not now?”

Phil just nods, like that string of words actually made sense to him, and walks into the bedroom. The bed is unmade on one side, and he slips under the covers. “You're free to sleep on the couch, if you prefer that,” Phil says. “But from your little speech, I gathered that's not what you meant by staying here.” He smiles, then, a disarming little thing, like he's telling Tony to calm the fuck down.

So Tony tries to do that. “Yeah, I... bed sharing is good. I mean, I'm not expecting – I know you're asexual,” he adds and tugs back the covers. “And I wouldn't... not without Clint knowing, anyway.” Are his cheeks warm? They feel warm.

Phil lets out a quiet snort. “I appreciate the thought.”

They both lie down, and Phil flicks the switch that's by the headboard. As soon as the lights go off, everything is a lot more awkward, and they lie there stiffly on their backs, a foot of space between them, and listen to the other person breathe.

“Tony, talk to me,” Phil murmurs.

“I,” Tony says and his voice shrivels up; he has to try again. “Do you do hugs? With people who aren't Clint, I mean. I saw your whole, the thing that Clint told you he taped, but...”

Phil turns to his side so he faces Tony. “I do, yes. I greatly enjoy platonic human contact – and not just with Clint, although I love him.” He says it so casually, like it's easy for him to admit out loud that he loves someone. Tony's mind skitters away from even _thinking_ it.

“Cool. That's... cool.”

“Would you like to move closer?” Phil says in that overly calm voice of his, like he's talking down someone from the edge of a tall building. “Or for me to move closer?”

“Sure, if you wanna,” Tony blurts and immediately scoots towards him. “I mean, I don't, you know, I just.” He doesn't know what he's saying, but it doesn't seem to matter – Phil rolls towards him, until their sides touch under the blankets. Tony's glad he's wearing clothes; this already feels too intimate, in a way. Like he's intruding on Clint's private life, somehow.

“I'm sorry I'm dragging you into all this,” he says.

“I don't mind,” Phil says and puts his hand on Tony's shoulder. Just that one place of contact is like an anchor to Tony, and he breathes in deeply; Phil's scent is so faint it's barely there, and blessedly calm. His smell reminds Tony of his Malibu home, of how it smells outside the day after a rain storm. Fresh, wiped clean, full of air.

“You smell good,” Tony mumbles. “Never really noticed that before.” He curls up so that more of them are in contact; he wants the grounding, needs it.

Phil chuckles. “Thank you. You smell like – like my Aunt Peggy's home-made cookies, actually.” He slides an arm around Tony's waist so they're lightly pressed together, chest to knees. It doesn't feel like he's holding Tony, or trying to baby him; only like he's pressing Tony downwards against the ground, keeping him from running away. It's nice to have an anchor, one whose scent isn't tinged with grief and disappointment.

Tony means to ask whether Phil's aunt Peggy is also Steve's Peggy, but what comes out is entirely different. “I miss them.”

“I'm not surprised,” Phil says. “They probably miss you too.”

“Fuck,” Tony whispers. “What if it's broken? What if I broke the bond?”

Calloused fingers run up and down his arm, slow and comforting. “Bonds can be mended, just as relationships can be.”

Tony doesn't say anything to that, just tries to match his breathing with Phil's. It only works halfway; he keeps taking deep, sharp breaths for no reason. His chest hurts; maybe something's wrong with the arc reactor.

“I had a dream, a few nights ago,” Phil says. “It was odd. There was a little girl in it, with dark hair, like yours – and her eyes were green, like Clint's. She was running around with Steve's shield, like it weighed nothing, ramming it into furniture and denting the walls as she went. Then she saw me and jumped into my arms and cried: 'Uncle Phil!'” Phil pauses for a moment. “I can't seem to forget that dream. It was brief, but it's stayed with me.”

Tony presses his eyes shut and tries to ignore the hammer of his own heartbeat. Phil shifts and gives him a brief kiss on the forehead, like the ones Maria used to give him sometimes when he was a kid. Before boarding school.

“You'd make a great uncle,” Tony whispers. His limbs are heavy with imminent sleep and the buzz in the back of his brain is slowly dying down.

“As you three would be great parents,” Phil says.

Tony doesn't remember what he replies to that; he's falling asleep. He may have said: “Yeah, we would.”

~*~

Tony blinks his eyes open to find a face two inches away from his own, staring right back at him.

He maybe screams a little. Manfully.

“Your little bird is taking up my bed,” Natasha says and unfolds from her coiled-spring stance on top of him. “And you're here with Phil. Should I expect Steve in Director Fury's bed?”

“How did you _get in here_?” Tony yelps and refuses to contemplate what she's just said.

“Tasha, this is too early,” Phil grumbles into his pillow. He sounds nothing like the unflappable agent he can be; just grumpy and sleepy and normal. His legs are tangled with Tony's under the covers.

“It's past seven,” Natasha says, like that makes this any less creepy. She's still sitting on top of Tony, like a perched cat.

“Natasha,” Phil says, with a modicum of an Agent voice now.

She's too classy to roll her eyes, or that's at least what Tony's guessing, because she only huffs quietly before she's off the bed and out of the room. Tony eyes the door opening suspiciously.

“She's a ninja,” he says.

“No,” Phil says and yawns, “she never finished her training.”

“She's had _ninja training_?”

“That's classified.”

Tony cackles his way out of bed and tries not to think about how long it's been since he laughed properly.

Natasha's waiting for them in the kitchen, her legs propped up on the table while she flicks through one of Phil's comic books. Tony notices that she handles it gently; they must be important to Phil.

“Legs off the table,” Phil says before he's even entered the room, and immediately makes a beeline for the coffee machine. He turns on the oven on his way. “Are you eating, Tasha?”

Natasha hums and props her legs on the chair Tony was about to sit down on instead.

“Thanks,” Tony says and finds a different chair, and she smiles briefly at him. It's a smile that could cut him if it wanted to, he knows that, but since she moved into the Tower, Tony's started to get used to her scariness. Now, there's an uncomfortable sort of familiarity to it, like when Tony used to befriend the spiders in the attic above his room.

Phil makes them breakfast and Tony helps out, while Natasha doesn't lift a finger. Phil seems to be used to this, and Tony doesn't feel like it's his place to ask. He does, however, have the balls to ask why she's here and not home.

“I needed a break from your boyfriend,” she says and turns the page. “He's being an asshole.”

“Tasha,” Phil says mildly and places a steaming hot mug of tea in front of her.

“It's true,” she says. “Just because he has a good reason to doesn't mean I don't find it infuriating.” She takes a sip, doesn't seem to care that it must be scalding hot. Tony curls his hands around his own mug, his one filled with strong, black coffee.

“How... does he seem?” Tony asks.

Natasha gives him an unimpressed look.

“What? What do you want me to do here?”

“I want all three of you to get over yourselves,” she says, matter-of-fact.

“Tasha,” Phil says, and this time there's nothing mild about his tone.

She inclines her head a fraction, as if conceding his point. “I've tried talking to him, but he won't listen to me.”

“At least he hasn't run away from you yet,” Tony points out, and Phil sets a plate of pancakes on the middle of the table. “Hey, when did you make these, Phil?” He snatches two pancakes from the plate immediately.

Phil smiles and sits down.

They eat in a contemplative silence, and Tony feels calmer than he has in days. The thought that soon, he'll have to go back and deal with Steve and Clint and his life in general makes him antsy, but not as much as it would have, twelve hours ago.

Of course, he hasn't more than acknowledged that thought before JARVIS pipes up. “Agent Coulson, Captain Rogers requests entry.”

Phil looks at Tony when he answers. “Did he tell you what it was about, JARVIS?”

“It regarded Sir, Agent. Although the Captain asked me to specify that it is by no means an urgent matter, and that it can be addressed at a later time.”

Tony rolls his eyes at everyone and no one. “It's fine, Phil, I'll get it. It's not your problem to fix.”

Natasha pointedly steals the remaining pancake on Tony's plate. Tony leaves her to it (like he has another choice) and pads out into the hallway, nodding at JARVIS in the ceiling.

“Hey, Steve,” he says once the doors open with a soft sound. He even leans against the doorway; he looks suave that way, he's seen pictures.

“Tony.” Steve doesn't smile, but neither does he look as puppy-kicked as he did last night, so Tony remains hopeful. “I wasn't sure if... I'm sorry if I'm intruding. I just thought, maybe-”

“Go out with me,” Tony blurts.

Steve does a subtle double-take. “Pardon?”

“To Central Park. Like, like a date.” Tony belatedly realizes that his hair must be all over the place, and tries to push it into something less nest-y. “Or something.”

“Of course,” Steve says, too timid. “I'd love to.”

~*~

“You want a hot dog?” Tony asks, and steps to the side as a kid on a bicycle way too big for her rattles past them. “You should get a hot dog, you don't eat enough.”

“I eat three times as much as you do, Tony,” Steve says and sounds indulgent. They're walking side by side, not touching, just a little further apart than usual.

“That's what I'm saying, you're eating too little.” It's a Saturday, and it's warm outside even if it's cloudy, which means that the park is pretty much packed with people. All the benches around them are taken, but Tony finds a spot under a nearby tree where they're alone and dumps down there. There's no need for shade, not in this weather, but the foliage makes them less likely to be recognized.

Steve sits down next to him, back pressed against the tree, hands clasped loosely between his knees. His gaze flits across the park around them, taking note of all the people around them, but not in that coldly assessing way that Clint would. Steve notices things as an artist first, Tony figures, and a soldier second.

“I'm sorry,” Tony says, and Steve blinks at him. “For, you know. Being me.”

Steve smiles ruefully. “That's awfully vague.”

“I know, I'm no good at apologies. I'm much better at bribes; can I interest you in a bribe?”

Steve huffs a laughter, before he sobers. “So you don't... want to break the bond.”

“God, no,” Tony blurts out and leans a little closer to him. “I never said I did, by the way, I just didn't – _not_ say it. Which I'm also sorry for. I just... This whole thing's making me a little insane. _More_ insane, I should probably say.”

Steve turns his hand palm up, a clear invitation, and Tony grabs it after a moment's hesitation. “I know. I get it, Tony, I do. I just wish you wouldn't...”

“Run away and hide, like a scared kid?”

Steve is polite enough to just hum in agreement.

“Yeah, you might have a point.”

Steve brings Tony's hand to his mouth and kisses each knuckle, slowly and methodically.

“How are you so good at this?” Tony wonders aloud, not even trying to hide how he's staring at the other Alpha's mouth. “Did the serum enhance your boyfriend skills as well? I feel like you must be cheating, somehow.”

Steve laughs, a shy little thing. “I don't know, you'd have to ask-” and there he cuts himself off, eyes widening a fraction before his body language closes up completely. He lets go of Tony's hand.

“Hey, hey, what just happened?” Tony asks, but his soft tone betrays him. He nudges Steve's shoulder. “We were having a moment.”

“No, I...” Steve frowns, eyes on his own, wringing hands. Then some of the tension bleeds out of him, with a big sigh. “I guess it doesn't really matter anymore, it's... ancient history. For most people, at least. And Fury hasn't said anything about...” he trails off again, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

Tony makes himself wait this time, even though the curiosity is killing him. But Steve doesn't have many secrets; he's not the secretive type, and that means that whatever's got him locked up as a clam right now, it's important. Tony _can_ be tactful, even if he rarely is – and he owes it to Steve after the clusterfuck that was last night. (He should send Phil a fruit basket or something, come to think of it, since the guy keeps housing them overnight.)

Steve pins him to the tree with that Captain America stare of his; the one that would get every man, woman and asshole in this country stand up for freedom of speech and puppies and sunshine. “Please don't tell anyone this, Tony – not yet. I mean, you can tell Clint, of course you can, but...”

“Hey, you know me,” Tony says. “I'm awful at keeping promises, but I'm great at keeping secrets.”

A bulldog sniffs its way past them without sparing them more than an uninterested glance, and the owner jogs by a moment later. Steve watches them pass in silence, waits for a bit longer, and then folds his hands delicately. “You read my file when they defrosted me, didn't you?”

“Yeah.”

“All of it?”

“Everything JARVIS could find on you. I'd feel bad, but...” Tony shrugs. They both know what he's like.

Steve's smile is fleeting, absent. “Then you know about Bucky.”

“Cap, everyone in the English-speaking world knows about Bucky. He's, like, the most famous side-kick besides Robin.”

Steve nods, slowly. “Batman?”

“Right on.” Tony grins. “I'm so proud.”

“Well, everybody knows that me and Buck were best friends, I guess. But we...” Steve ducks his head and brings his hand to his forehead; he rubs it, like he's trying to remember something, although Tony knows his memory got enhanced by the serum. “Well, I guess you could call us sweethearts, although Buck never liked that term.”

Tony just sits and lets that sink in for a moment. “You and Bucky... you and _Bucky_? But I thought he was an Alpha?”

Steve nods and looks at him. “He was. That's why we kept it to ourselves. You've – I mean, we've come a long way now. Betas and Betas can marry, Omegas and Omegas – but back then, it was... frowned upon, to say the least. Not to mention we were both in the military.”

“All macho Alphas go for housewife Omegas,” Tony intones, briefly thinking about his own mother.

“That about sums it up.” Steve leans his head back, against the knobby gray-brown trunk, and shuts his eyes. “The Commandos knew, of course, but it was more of an open secret than anything else. A little like... what was it, the same-gender Army rule that was repealed?”

“Don't Ask, Don't Tell?”

“Yeah, like that. We didn't mention it, they didn't mention it.”

“That sounds...” Tony doesn't know how to finish that sentence, so he doesn't, and that makes Steve smile at him.

“It was, a little. We didn't much care, though, neither me nor Bucky. After he was reported missing...” Steve draws in a sharp breath. “You know, I lost him three times. The first was when he left for the war, before I even met Dr. Erskine – we both know there was a good chance he wouldn't come back. And I found him, I found him in the Hydra camp after I lost him again –” Steve plucks a few blades of grass, methodical, his brows furrowed. “We were just happy with the little time we got. _Months_ , we got, until...”

“The train,” Tony murmurs.

Steve drags a hand across his eyes, but they're dry and clear. He looks almost surprised when he shares a glance with Tony. “You know, it's odd. I haven't talked about this to anyone since... since Peggy, really. Which was seventy years ago, by now. I'm so used to it being a complete hush-hush subject. It doesn't... hurt as much as I thought it would.”

"I'm glad," Tony says and means it a lot.

They sit in silence for a minute. Tony counts the seconds in his head. “Is that why you dared to kiss me, that first time?”

“Pardon?”

“Because I wasn't, I dunno, your first Alpha kiss?” Tony tries not to sound like an asshole about it, because he doesn't mean to be. “That's not – I'm not judging you for it, I've made out an Alpha or two in my life. I'm just curious.”

“I don't know,” Steve says. “Maybe?”

They lean together, shoulder against shoulder, heads touching, and Tony feels... okay. 

“Did you ever plan?” Tony asks, although he knows it's not his place. “For... after the war.”

Steve turns; tucks his head into the crook of Tony's shoulder so Tony can feel him breathe. “Bucky used to joke that at some point, I'd realize what a fool I'd been and find me some sweet Omega to settle down with, but that was... just his insecurity talking, I knew. We didn't really talk about it; even if we'd stayed together, pretended to be bachelors the both of us, there's no way we could've ever had a kid.”

Tony closes his eyes. In the periphery, like a dim background noise, he can hear laughter and chatting and music and shouting and cars and pigeons. “So you wanted kids.”

“Yeah. I think I've always wanted that; a family. It was just... never feasible. Before the serum, I was pretty much useless as an Alpha, and after?” Steve laughs, but it's not a happy sound. “I was Captain America. Too busy fighting Nazis to raise a kid.”

“... And now?” Tony asks quietly.

Steve shifts, sits up enough that he can look Tony in the eyes. “Tony?”

“Nothing; it's dumb, forget I asked.”

Steve watches him for another moment. Then, he leans forward and kisses Tony, chaste and slow. “I still want it. I know we shouldn't, not as Avengers... but that doesn't stop me from wanting, and it doesn't stop the dreams I keep having.”

“Yeah.” Tony turns away. “Yeah.”

Without saying anything, they both get to their feet and start walking back the way the way they came from – the only difference is that now, Steve's fingers are firmly entangled with Tony's own.

“What about Clint?” Tony asks. “What do we... do?”

Steve sighs. “I think there are two options. Either we wait for him to come to us, whenever he feels ready, or we approach him. I don't know which is better – or worse.” He arches an eyebrow at Tony.

“Hey, don't look at me,” Tony says. “I'm notorious for screwing up every single good thing in my life; please don't have me make decisions here.”

“I think you're doing alright so far,” Steve says and squeezes his hand. His voice is so warm, it's almost enough to melt Tony's self-doubt.

“Yeah? I almost drove _you_ off before, what's to say I won't do the same to poor Barton?”

“I wasn't going anywhere,” Steve says and smiles at him. His eyes glint, and there's a weight behind his words that Tony isn't sure how to interpret. “I'm with you – both of you – till the end of the line.”

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of past abuse, both physical and psychological.

“Sir,” JARVIS says when they enter the Tower, “Agent Romanoff has instructed me to inform you that you have a package waiting.” JARVIS sounds carefully neutral, as opposed to his _actual_ neutral self, and Tony wonders how he knows the difference.

“For me?” Tony asks, as he and Steve get into the elevator.

“You and Captain Rogers, sir.”

The two of them share a puzzled look. The package isn't waiting outside their door, but once the doors open and they peer into the living room, Steve makes a small, scandalized sound.

“Natasha sent it, did she,” Tony says, and Steve rushes over.

Clint is hog-tied on their big couch with long, bright purple silk scarves. Another scarf, thicker and longer, has been used as a makeshift gag, and all in all, Clint looks like a disgruntled and severely annoyed purple lump.

“Clint, are you alright?” Steve says and fusses as he unties Clint. “How long have you been here?”

“Ow,” Clint mutters and unfolds slowly from his uncomfortable position. “Just an hour or so, not too long.” He cranes his neck, and Tony can hear the tiny popping sounds. “Nat sends her regards. Said she was done waiting for my balls to drop.” He grimaces. “She's a classy lady.”

“That she is,” Tony agrees, and maybe he giggles awkwardly, too, except he doesn't do that because that would be... dumb. Then, nobody seems to know what to say, and that cloying silence settles again. Tony comes over to the other two, and Steve sits down on the couch with Clint.

“You guys smell better,” Clint says eventually. Tony and Steve must have similar, confused expressions, because Clit immediately grimaces and starts flapping his hands. “No no no, I don't mean – I just meant, uh, you... happy. er. You seem happier.” He mumbles something unintelligible into his palm.

“We do?” Steve says and looks over at Tony. “Good, that's... that's good, right?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I like to think so.” He dumps down in the middle of the couch, right between his two boyfriends. “We missed you, Clint.”

“Yeeeah,” Clint says and draws out that word for almost ten seconds. “Sorry.”

“It's fine, Clint,” Steve is quick to assure him. “You were well within your right to take some time... off, I guess. You still can,” he adds and glances at the purple ribbons tangled on the floor. “It wasn't exactly your choice to return.”

“No, that's- it was high time I came back.” Clint squirms a little. “I kinda... let things hanging, I know that.”

Tony swallows and tries not to absorb bad news before they actually exist, but he can practically smell his own anxiety in the air, just like he can smell how uncomfortable Clint is. Steve, as is usual in tense situations, is carefully – and somehow – controlling his scent. 

“I'm- so sorry, you guys,” Clint says quietly. “Fuck, I- neither of you deserved to go through that. My body fucked up, and...”

“Clint,” Tony interrupts, because he's a rude little shit and he's okay with that, “I'm sorry, but are you kidding me right now?”

Clint blanches. “What?”

“Because it sounded to me like you were apologizing for something that, A, you had no control over in the first place, and B, you were entitled to freak out over.”

Clint scowls at him, which, to be honest, is a big improvement from the shadow he's been the last few weeks. “Guys...”

“No, no,” Steve says, with a small smile. “For once, I actually agree with Tony.”

“I'm _shocked_ , Rogers,” Tony says and widens his eyes dramatically.

Clint's mask is slipping; there's almost a smile showing through the cracks. “ _Guys_.”

“Clint,” Steve murmurs, and leans across Tony to rub his thumb gently across Clint's cheek. “We don't blame you, we don't resent you, we just _miss_ you, okay?”

Clint sighs and offers them a half-smile. “Yeah. You guys too.” It looks like a moment is happening, maybe even one involving makeouts, but then Clint flinches backwards and off the couch. “No! I mean yeah, I did, I do, but – this, this isn't like a one-time thing, you guys, okay?” He backs up until his back hits the alcove by the window closest to the kitchen. “Something else'll happen, and I'll freak the fuck out and disappear on you, and- I can't change. I'm not _like_ that.”

“Who says you need to be?” Tony asks.

“Mar-” Clint chokes on that word, and then... he starts laughing, weirdly enough. A deep, miserable giggle that doesn't fit him at all. “Ah, that's just perfect,” he whispers, seemingly to himself, and grins at the ceiling.

Tony glances at Steve, who seems just as confused as him. “Uh, Clint?” Tony says. “You okay?”

“Fine, fine, fucking fine,” Clint mumbles to himself, then nods a couple times and takes a deep breath. “Alright. So, I got a story to tell. If you wanna listen.” He tries for a smile – at least that's what Tony thinks he's trying – but it mostly looks painful. “I can't promise a happy ending.”

“Lay it on us, Barton,” Tony says and settles back against the couch pillows.

“Right.” Clint does a weird sort of nervous dance, before something seems to settle within and he just – slumps, settling onto the pillowed alcove with a faraway look on his face. He doesn't look at them, and neither Tony nor Steve say anything, for fear of breaking the fragile spell that's being woven.

“I had a... girlfriend, once,” Clint says and stares out the window. Tony can see him follow the outline of the skyline with his eyes, pausing at the tallest points. “I guess girlfriend's the word for it. We were, it was sex, mostly, but. Exclusive.”

“Alpha?” Tony asks when Clint seems to lose his trail of thought.

“Yeah. Possessive one, too. She caught me flirting with a waitress once, just a small thing. Punched my teeth in.”

Tony and Steve mostly hide their flinch, but the flicker of Clint's eyes says he's not fooled.

“It's fine. Pre-SHIELD by some years, so I barely had the money to fix my tooth, but that's not the point. Point is I fucking left; I walked out that afternoon. Never explained myself to her, never went back.” Clint rubs his mouth briefly, as if he can feel the difference between original and porcelain teeth through his lips. “I always knew, after watching the shit Trick Shot pulled in the circus, that I wasn't gonna be one of those punching ball Omegas, too scared to talk to their Alphas because the wrong answer'd kick them in the ass. Or the face.”

Steve has that lemon-scrunched look on his face that means he wants to apologize on the behalf of humanity. Or Alphas. Or both. Tony pets him awkwardly on the thigh.

“Good on you, Clint,” Tony says, to try and make either of his partners look less miserable. It doesn't work.

“Haven't gotten to the shitty part yet, Tony,” Clint says quietly. He takes a deep breath, and doesn't say anything for a minute or two. Steve and Tony wait; Tony keeps his hand where it is, resting on Steve's thigh.

“I got shot in Arizona,” Clint continues eventually. “Merc job, about a year or so before Phil found me. I had bad intel and screwed up; got a bullet in my thigh for it.” He smiles, and it's a brief, old thing. “I dunno how I survived for so long before SHIELD picked me outta the trash – fuck, I was a fucking idiot. Anyway. I got out of there, stole a car, drove off. Luckily for me, the dude who shot didn't nick the artery.”

“Lucky for us, too,” Tony says, though he doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Steve grabs his hands and squeezes it.

Clint doesn't acknowledge that, but he does duck his head barely. “Drove around for almost twenty minutes before I stopped and passed out – not too bad, considering. Anyway, next time I wake up, I'm in the hospital, and there's a dude sitting next to my bed. Short hair, strong jaw, those ridiculously bright eyes – blue or grey, I never could tell – and this big, warm smile on his face. Like he's relieved I woke up. He introduces himself, says his name is Marco.” Clint huffs a little. “He's Portuguese, I always was a sucker for that language. The way they roll their 'r's, I dunno.” He props his forehead against the glass and Tony sees Clint's face reflected in it, sees how he's smiling enough that the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“You fell in love,” Steve says softly, like this is a movie and he's just been waiting for his cue.

Clint's smile flickers and dies. “Like a little fucking kid. Marco stuck around the couple days I stayed at the hospital, talked to me, told me stuff about himself. By the time I was going out he'd realized that I didn't have a place to go, so he offered his couch. I spent one night there, then I moved into his bedroom with him.” He lifts his hand and drums his fingers against the glass in a fast, but soft rhythm. Tappety-tappety-tap. “Marco called me a diamond in the rough. I laughed at that, 'course, thought it was fucking stupid as a sentiment _and_ a nickname, but he liked it. It stuck. And I kinda liked the thought that somebody found me valuable, beneath all the smudge and shit.”

Steve makes a tiny, aborted movement towards Clint. Instead, he shifts a little closer to Tony and tangles their fingers together, like they're watching a scary movie on the TV and they're getting to the gory part.

“I couldn't take any jobs for a while, obviously, with my leg all fucked up, but Marco let me stay around. He worked as an engineer, some kinda high-end job, I don't remember. It was like... like I'd stolen off into some kinda rom-com or something. This apartment, this life where people were fucking _normal_ and didn't know eighty ways to kill someone without bullets, where they only used knives for cooking. I started watching _Jeopardy_ , that's how bad it got.”

“But you were okay?” Steve asks.

“Best ever,” Clint says in a faraway voice. “Marco paid my bills, kept me fed. I was like one of those stay-at-home Omegas the magazines always gush about, 'cept I wasn't preggers, of course. Marco, he... was _interested_ , noticed me like nobody'd done since- Barney, probably.” He turns towards them for a moment, just to shoot them a sharp look. “Not in that way.”

Tony puts his palms up to say he wasn't even thinking about it. They've all got family issues, everybody on the team has them, but Tony never thought Clint's were of the bad-brother-touching kind.

“Anyway, it...” Clint turns back to his window. “I dunno. It started slow, real slow. Marco bought me some new clothes one day, said how handsome he thought I'd look in a shirt. Red ones, mostly, scarlet. And this one fucking salmon-coloured one, fuck, I hated that one.” He laughs to himself before sobering up. “Bought me fresh toiletries, all almond-scented, said it reminded him of my heat. Had me growin' my hair, he liked to grab it when- he liked to grab it.” He sighs. “Marco, he... he never got angry. Never. At least, not the aggressive shouty kinda angry. He'd get disappointed, though, when I fucked up, which was often. All the time. I didn't wanna wear collars or anything, didn't like how people could just look at me in public and _know_ , y'know?”

Steve and Tony nod in unison. They know. Tony bets Clint would look beautiful in a collar, one of those simple, black ones that wouldn't bother Clint when he's working. But he knows, just like Steve knows, that Clint isn't that type of guy. And that's cool. They've all got their things, and Clint is pretty much Tony's version of a perfect Omega anyway.

“Marco had this – this _look_ , this look that'd just tell me everything I'd know. That I'd fucked up again. How hard, how fucking _hard_ Marco was trying to fix me, but I'm just too fucking broken and I know that one day it'd end, right? He's gotta draw the line some time. So I start wearing the salmon shirt. I start wearing a collar to bed, then around the house, because it just makes him so fucking happy. I start trying new stuff when we have sex, let him call me all the dirty stuff he wants, do the stuff he's suggested before but I refused because-” he breaks off and shakes his head. “Doesn't matter. He tells me how proud he is, how good I am, his fucking diamond in the rough, and asks for more. I don't refuse a lot anymore, not when he becomes so tight-lipped and disappointed, just like Ba- just like everyone I've known. I've been living in his house for seven months without taking a single job and _fuck_ , I'm so antsy I could pop someone right there and then, and that scares me because I can't hurt him, I can't be that guy. I've got hands as smooth as they've ever been because Marco likes that, he wants me to have manicures without the shitty nail polish stuff, and I do. And then- and then, somewhere along the line, I've fucked up one too many times and he just... shifts.”

“What do you mean?” Steve says after the silence has stretched too long, when all Clint does is stare out of the window like he's looking for something, breathing hard. Tony hasn't missed how Clint's gone from past to present in the way he tells his story, hasn't missed how his voice has dipped lower, rougher, more hollow the more he seems to remember. And maybe it's cruel of them to just sit here and listen, but they're not pushing, and Clint's telling this story like it's the first time. Tony doubts Natasha doesn't know all of this, but he doesn't think many others do.

“Marco starts asking me if I really love him, because how can I, when I keep disobeying and _disappointing_ him the way I do?” It sounds like an honest question and it breaks Tony's heart. “I try to say I'm sorry but words are nothing, words don't mean shit. He likes it when I'm quiet, even in bed, because-” Clint pulls his knees up against his chest so his entire body leans against the chilly glass. “Because I can't lie like that. He doesn't like the lies. Always hated the lies. So I keep quiet and I let him make the decisions, because he knows best, he's the fucking Alpha after all, _my_ Alpha and I don't get it, but it's not good enough, I shoulda done-” he jerks back from the glass suddenly and looks at them over his shoulder.

“Clint?” Steve says and half-rises from the couch before he visibly makes himself go still. “Are you okay?”

Clint stares like he doesn't know them, either of them, and though the moment seems to last forever, it can't take more than a couple of seconds before he shakes his head. His eyes clear. “And then he threw me out,” he says, quiet. His fingers twitch, like they want to grab a hold of the two of them. “I came back from the store one day and my stuff was all neatly packed and put outside on the porch. I must've banged on his door for hours.”

“Jesus,” Tony says.

“I stuck around for a day, but he wasn't home, so finally I left. I took most of my shit with me, even though it was all stuff that he'd bought me; the fancy clothes and the soaps and the collars and- I still had contacts, even though I'd been out of the game for a while. I took a few jobs, worked my ass off, tried not to sleep. I'd wake up during the night, wondering where my collar'd gone. Ironic, considering I never even wanted the fucking thing.” Clint's hands are shaking, but it's the kind of shaking that Tony knows would go away instantly if Clint had his bow in hand.

Steve has slowly sat back down in the couch, and now he's hunched here, like he doesn't know what to do with himself. His fingers had slipped out of Tony's when he rose, and Tony wants to grab them again, but doesn't want the movement to jostle Clint out of his story. It feels like there's another, a last part coming up and Tony isn't looking forward to it.

“I did nothing but work for a month,” Clint says. “Took whatever jobs I could find, didn't much care which side of the good-evil side of the spectrum they landed, even if I did have some hard limits. First job I finished, I spent the money on new clothes, and kept the old ones from Marco in a duffel bag in a storage box I had. I hadn't opened that bag since I l- since he made me leave, but after a month, I had enough money to rent an apartment. Second night I spent there, I got the bag and went through it. Turns out he'd left me a letter. Handwritten, too, with this really neat cursive writing like you see in old movies.”

Tony isn't asshole enough to ask what was in the letter, but he's nearly pulsating with curiosity and he doubts he's hiding that very well. Not that it matters; Clint may be facing them now, a few feet away from the couch, but what he's staring at is far, far off.

“He said,” Clint says quietly, “he wrote that there's this cheap mineral, this thing called cubic zirconia. It looks like diamond, sparkles like it, but it's fake. It's not the real deal. And if you take it to a jeweler, if you really put it under the microscope, you'll always be able to tell which one's a diamond, and which one's just pretending to be.”

Steve makes a very, very quiet noise, and when Tony glances at him, Steve looks an awful lot like that nineteen-year old skinny kid from Brooklyn that first met Tony's dad. He's got the same tired, resigned look of someone who knows other people will never see past their looks, and Clint's face mirrors it.

“The end, I guess,” Clint says and stands. “I thought... you should know. Probably shoulda told you before this whole thing started, but. Yeah. Okay.” He starts walking out of the room, slowly, like he doesn't really notice where he's going.

“You want some space?” Tony asks, even though he just wants to get up and follow him.

“Yeah,” Clint sighs. Then he stops and frowns. “No, actually, no. No, I don't. I really don't.” And he turns and walks back to the couch where Steve and Tony have already extended their arms. He lets them pull him down between them.

Steve sort of drapes Clint across his chest, and Tony presses close enough to cover Clint's back. Somehow, Clint ends up in a fetal position between them, ear pressed against Steve's heartbeat. His eyes are still far away and Tony kisses him, over and over, on his brow and temple. The citrus smell is there, citrus and that particular motor oil smell Tony loves so much and _oh_ , can't Tony have this? Can't he just have these two guys in his life? Because if he can, he's pretty much settled. He won't ask for more than that.

“Thank you, Clint,” Steve says in the silence that settles. “Thank you so much for telling us.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, because he doesn't know what he can say that won't come out as 'tell me his last name so I can hunt the bastard down'. He doesn't like to be That Alpha, but he goddamn feels like one right now.

Clint shrugs, clearly pretending to be more relaxed than he is, and his hand brushes over his stomach once. (There is no bump anymore, Tony notices.) Then his face crumples.

“Hey, it's okay,” Steve says quietly and holds him closer. “That's it, you're okay.”

Clint hides his face in the hollow of Steve's neck and cries almost silently, small hiccups of breath the only sound he makes. He presses the palm of his hand against his abdomen. Tony presses his face against the back of Clint's neck and ignores the salt stinging in his own eyes, but when his nose starts dripping, he just sniffles, and doesn't try to hide it. Steve has arms long enough to envelop both of them and he does, trailing soothing fingers down Tony's back.

“So fucking stupid,” Clint whispers, but Tony doesn't think he's talking about Marco anymore. “How the fuck do I miss something I never had?”

It's like an echo of his conversation with Phil, and for some reason, it makes Tony want to laugh. It only comes out as a strangled sob, though. He doesn't know what to do, he hasn't known for a month now, but somehow he finds himself sliding his hands forward, around Clint's waist, until they slot on top of Clint's hands. Clint visibly tenses, but then his fingers move to stroke Tony's, and it feels like a thank you.

“I had this daydream,” Steve says, out of the blue, and Tony and Clint still. “It was... crazy, I know it was, but. It's like I could see the Avengers tower, see our baby girl grow up here. I mean, it wouldn't have been like in the movies, of course, where apocalypses only happen when we've got a babysitter. But I couldn't help think how weird and wonderful it would have been; Uncle Thor telling bedtime stories about past battles, stuff that definitely wouldn't be child-appropriate. Aunt Natasha teaching acrobat tricks and self-defense; Uncle Bruce teaching our girl to mix leaves and create herbal teas, or making those samosas you love so much, Clint. And Uncle Phil would probably try to balance all the bad influences out with his own.”

Tony's got his face buried in his Omega's hair, but he can hear how Steve is smiling.

“She'd be a handful,” Steve says absently.

Clint squirms a little between them, but only so he can look up into Steve's eyes. “You thought it'd be a girl?”

“Oh, I mean,” Steve mumbles. “I don't- it didn't matter to me. Boy or girl. I just enjoyed the fantasy, I guess. I only got to be the little brother when I grew up, skinny and sick all the time – Bucky took care of me after my ma died, and before that too, but I never really got to take care of someone like that. Not from the start.” He makes a thoughtful noise. “I sure wonder what we'd be like, being dads.”

“Fuck,” Clint chuckles wetly, and buries his face again.

“Break our hearts, won't you, Cap?” Tony says, and giggles alongside Clint. They're both shaking and he's not sure whether they're crying or laughing or something in between, but it's _light_ in here, like JARVIS made the air conditioning pump in a gallon of fresh oxygen.

It feels like... even if they lost something, lost the little baby girl Steve's dreamt about and Tony never thought he'd want and Clint never had to lose – at least they lost her together.

They sit in a ball of comfort on the couch, Steve as the frame and Clint as the center, until all three of them breathe in time with the others.

“I love you,” Tony says suddenly. It slips out, like losing your bar of soap in the shower, but he doesn't regret it. It's true, after all, even if his timing's atrocious. “Both of you.”

“I love you too, Tony,” Steve says and strokes Tony's cheek with one hand. “And I love you, Clint.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and if his voice sounds a little broken, his eyes are dry now. “Yeah, you too, both of you.” He leans up and kisses Steve, before he turns around and lets Tony kiss him.

They stay on the couch until the sun has gone down behind the Manhattan skyline.

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

“So I think I have a crush on Phil,” Tony says the next morning.

Clint chokes on his juice and spits it all across the breakfast table. Steve looks up from his newspaper and then _very_ slowly and carefully folds it.

“Is that weird?” Tony muses. “Because it feels weird, but in a good way. You know?”

“Shit, I'm sorry,” Clint mumbles and goes to get a dish rag. He starts mopping up the juice on his plate, but he's still eyeing Tony. “And if that was a joke, Tony, kudos for making me spit all over myself, but it's not actually that funny.”

“It's a little funny,” Tony says.

Clint scowls. Steve is playing chameleon between them, with a carefully neutral expression.

“I'm also mostly serious,” Tony points out as Clint mops up the table. “I stayed with Phil a couple of nights ago, after that thing with Steve – which I'm _still_ sorry about, Steve-”

“I know, Tony, we're fine,” Steve says easily and grabs a juice-free muffin from the basket in front of him.

“- and there were cuddles!” Tony finishes. “Actual, manful cuddles. I'm jealous of you, Clint, I really am.”

Clint makes a sound that's halfway between a giggle and a confused sneeze. “Tony, are you high?”

“A little bit,” Tony agrees. “But only on endorphins and serotonin.”

“We didn't even have sex last night,” Clint says and gets himself a second glass of juice, “what's with the chemicals?”

“I got my Omega back,” Tony says, quieter than he was going for.

Clint stops, mid-sip again, but this time he doesn't choke on it. He just puts his glass down, slides out from his chair, walks around the table and straddles Tony. “I didn't leave,” he says and presses a kiss to Tony's jaw.

“You left a little bit,” Tony says, instead of listening to his self-preservation.

“Maybe a little bit,” Clint agrees. He skims his hand down Tony's t-shirt until it reaches the arc reactor, and splays his fingers over it. “I have issues. Does that count as an excuse?”

“We all have issues, so I'm thinking yes,” Tony says. He places his hands on Clint's hips to hold him in place; Clint is heavy, but the weight is comforting.

Clint smiles and kisses him, before he glances over his shoulder. “Steve, get over here, we're having a moment.”

“Again?” Steve says mildly, but comes up behind Tony to ruffle his hair. “There's been so many moments lately, I'm losing count.” His fingers scratch at the hair at Tony's nape, which is so unfair because that makes it impossible for him to focus on other things.

“Don't mock our moments,” Clint says with a wounded look.

Steve laughs. Steve has the best laughs, warm and deep like his rare purrs. Coupled with the fingers still scratching softly at Tony's scalp, Tony has more or less been pushed into-

“Oh, look,” comes Clint's voice, thick with humor. “Tony's gone to his happy place.”

“He hasn't been there in a while,” Steve says, and then there's kissing sounds and Tony hums loudly because it's good to be three again. It's good to have this again.

“Stay here with him,” Clint says, and his voice is coming from faraway now, even though he's still sitting on Tony's lap. “I'll clean the rest of this stuff up.” The weight disappears.

“Hm,” Steve says.

Tony makes a questioning voice. Then he squawks, because Steve fucking _picks him up and carries him over to the couch and_ “what the hell, Rogers?”

Clint is laughing over by the table and Tony is trapped in the arms of a supersoldier, so he makes annoyed noises and squirms and Steve holds him fast and kisses his neck and he's happy, he's so happy that it hurts because – because what if it ends again? What if it stops?

“Tony?” Steve's half-lying on him on the couch, but his smile looks uncertain now and that's no good.

“I'm fine,” Tony says and pushes his hands under Steve's t-shirt. “I am. I'm just... thinking about the next time we all freak out.” He frowns. “Or when me and Clint freak out. You don't seem to freak out a lot.”

“I resent that,” Clint pipes up from the kitchen. “Even if it's true.”

Steve lies down beside Tony and puts his head on Tony's chest, a mirror of their usual position. “We'll get through it. And I know what to do if I ever... freak out.”

“Yeah?” Tony says. Clint pops up next to them and peers curiously down at Steve.

“Yeah,” Steve says and grins. “I'll sleep over at Phil's.”

~*~

_Phil can tell, from the knock on his door alone, that it's the Steve. “Come in, Captain Rogers.”_

_Steve enters his office, smiles, and takes a seat. His body language is loose, but also nervously excited, and he opens with: “I'm sorry, agent Coulson – this is a personal matter, so I can come back later if it's a bad time.”_

_Relatively speaking, any time Phil is at the office is a bad time for personal matters, but it's not always a rule he enforces. Especially not around the Avengers, it seems. “Go ahead, Steve,” he says. Personal matters means they are on first-name basis for the time being, at least in his office. Clint makes fun of Phil for all his little mental rules, but that's alright. Phil is comfortable with being slightly neurotic._

_“Actually, it's two-fold,” Steve says, quirking a smile. “And it might seem silly, especially the first bit, but I'm serious, I promise.”_

_“Go on,” Phil says, the epitome of competence. It would be unprofessional of him to be charmed by Steve's slight fumbling, so he isn't._

_“I think we should get dinner, sir- Phil,” Steve says, his brow furrowed in concentration._

_“We should- dinner?” Phil blurts. Then he coughs and resettles, because he is_ a professional _. “The team, you mean?”_

 _“No, just you and me,” Steve says. “I feel like we should get to know each other better – you're Clint's Beta, you're an important person in his life, in_ our _life, and I still have problems not calling you 'sir'.” He gives Phil a shy smile. “Besides, after last week, I seem to be the only one in my relationship who_ hasn't _spent a night in your bed.”_

_Phil's face is on fire. It's... inconvenient. “If you feel like I'm intruding-” he starts, but Steve waves him off._

_“No no, Phil, that's not what I mean at all. It's the opposite, actually; even though you're not technically with me or Tony, I feel like you're in this relationship as much as any of us.” Steve picks up a pen from Phil's desk and begins to idly twirl it between his fingers. Fingers that Phil is not, by any means, staring at._

_Phil folds his hands on the desk. Nerves vibrate beneath his skin and travel down to his stomach, where they curl and sting. He isn't sure where exactly he finds himself now, on the spectrum of excitement and nervousness. “Please explain to me what exactly you're proposing, Steve. I don't... want to presume.” He hopes his tone is less hostile than his words may seem._

_Steve huffs a quiet laughter. “Phil. Would you like to go on a date with me?”_

_Phil says nothing. His cheeks have not gotten any less warm and he wants to hide his face in his hands._

_“You absolutely don't have to say yes,” Steve continues quickly. “I promise that your decision will not affect the team dynamics, your relationship with Clint, or our friendship. This is just me... offering more, if that's something you want.” For the first time, a whisper of a blush streaks across Steve's cheeks. “There would be negotiations of various kinds later, of course. Our relationship – mine, Tony and Clint's – is already pretty complicated. But... I've always preferred complicated, myself.”_

_“You are a very strange man, Steve,” Phil says in lieu of simply gawking._

_“So I keep hearing, sir.”_

_Phil sorts through the various thoughts and reactions that race through his mind. “What about Tony?” he asks, and plans to elaborate when he realizes how vague his question is._

_The Captain is no idiot, however. “I reckon he'd want to ask you out on a date of his own, though I'm not officially speaking for him. I don't think he'd dare to do it, not unless he knew I was on board with potentially bringing you into our pack. I'm also fairly sure that Clint doesn't mind, but we haven't discussed any of this outright, so none of this is final.” He shrugs. “It's mostly me asking you out for a date where we could... maybe talk about some things.”_

_Phil hesitates. “I would prefer Tony and Clint knows about this, if so,” he says slowly. “So there is no room for miscommunication.”_

_“Absolutely,” Steve says. His eyes are fond when they observe Phil._

_“Then yes, I would like that. Steve.” He nearly stumbles over the name, but he can forgive himself. He hasn't been on a date for quite a few years by now, and he never expected a date with his childhood hero. Phil sees Steve grin, almost smugly, and clears his throat. “There was something else, I believe?”_

_“Oh, yes!” Steve says and puts his borrowed pen back in its place. “I wondered if you could guide me through some of SHIELD's security measures for agents with children, sir.” There is nothing cheeky about him now, and Phil swears he detects a note of nervousness in Steve's voice._

_He raises an eyebrow. “Any SHIELD agent, or are you more interested in the security fail-safe systems set particularly in place in case any Avenger becomes pregnant or has a child?”_

_“The second, sir,” Steve says. “For... future possible reference.” He looks as earnest as ever. “I thought, maybe something could be upgraded or added, just in case... well, you never know what might happen, right?”_

_Phil smiles warmly. “No, Captain. You never know.”_

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the feedback; it's been great. I know some of you may be put-out that it ends here, but not to fear - I've got another installment planned, and I've already started writing it. That one should address the main issue raised in this fic, and also introduce another character (and arc) to this !verse. /vague
> 
> Also, I can't believe this thing is more than 60,000 words now. I was only gonna write a small porny A/B/O thing! For fun!
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler notes: Clint suffers from pseudocyesis in the beginning of the story, something better known as false pregnancy. It's not very uncommon, and it happens with both humans and other animals. It's also not to be confused with a simulated pregnancy, in which the 'bearer' consciously feigns pregnancy. In pseudocyesis, the bearer is convinced that they are actually pregnant, and may experience a range of physical symptoms that support their conviction.


End file.
